In epicycles of quick death,
Circling above the river’s crest,
A red-tailed hawk glides swiftly down
To rest upon a barren branch.

The hawk hunches against the cold.
Relentless gazing turns his eye.
His curved beak pierces the day.

The sycamore weathers in its time.
It holds there on its highest limb
The monarch of the summer wind.

The bird preens, circled, in the sun.

Rooting itself in the river bed,
Sustaining an eroded land,
The great tree towers, bows, and bends,
Tossing the hawk toward pale skies.

This tree was once held sacred to the dead.
Its massive bole contains the centuries’ floods,
And from its silver crown the great hawk flies. (53)